How Deep Is Your Love?
by flashpenguin
Summary: House must say goodbye to the love of his life. wwwyoutubecomwatch?vFQMa3OzgY9oA link to the video of the story.


I do not own, nor do I claim House to be mine. I do owe, however, a debt of gratitude to the Bee Gees for inspiring my first House fanfic. 

**_"I know your eyes in the morning sun;  
I feel you touch me in the pouring rain.  
And the moment that you wander far from me,  
I wanna feel you in my arms again." B, R, & M Gibb _**

He knew it wasn't meant to be, but he wasn't going to cry about it. Some things were just too good to last, like motorcycle rides in the spring, a good bottle of scotch, a vicodin high...

Oh what a fool he had been. But isn't everyone? How often had he prayed that the moment would go on forever, but wish that it would hurry up and leave so he could start the mourning period? And like a fool he wished he could do it over again knowing full well that nothing would change.

He knew this day was destined to arrive. He knew that the moment he looked away she'd walk out that door with his heart. And this time she had left for good. For real. No turning back. Once the door closes, it's over. He had let her leave because without her, what good was his heart? Just another muscle gathering scar tissue requiring vicodin to ease the pain. Although at his age, the amount of vicodin needed would in all essence kill him.

Death. Was there a more beautiful and tragic word?

But here he was surrounded by life going on, and his heart was shattering. He wanted to shout: "I'm sorry. I took you for granted. I was a fool. Don't leave me," but begging had never been in his vocabulary. So why start now? And for the first time in a long time his tongue was tied.

He used to think that falling to his knees was always considered so beneath him that he would rather walk down the street naked. Yet, at this moment, if falling to his knees and begging could have made her stay, humiliation be damned. Although he could envision the chaos his public nudity would cause. Cuddy would have had him committed---if she was still here. Sometimes he missed their verbal bantering and sexually laced jabs. But it never went further than that. Cuddy knew where his heart truly belonged.

His heart had belonged to a dark-haired, green-eyed, sunshine and lollipops, puppy rescuing, kitten cuddling nymph. Like a fool, everyone knew before he did--well, he had always known, but he tried to avoid it. He liked order. He had liked his life before she came barging in, demanding that he open up to her. Hell, she was a immunologist, not a therapist, but she worked him until all he could do was give in and fall madly in love. Now she was gone.

How many steps of grief are there? Too many to count and not enough to explain the torture in his soul. No one tells you that you experience all the steps five minutes after "good-bye". But if counselors told their patients the truth, most would be looking for another line of work. A majority of them probably couldn't flip a burger to save their lives, so maybe dishing out life advice isn't so bad after all. You can't contract e-coli from advice. The thought brought a tiny fraction of a smile to his sorrow drawn face.

_"You didn't deserve her,"_ he berated himself. _"How long did you expect her to stay around trying to fill that empty void inside before throwing her hands up and shouting ENOUGH!?"_ But she understood. She knew. She was my missing link, and she had never complained.

_I never told her that her eyes reminded me of the lush green grass of Ireland, nor how her laughter was like bells on the hillside. I never told her that when she wrapped her arms around me I felt safe. All I tried to do was push her away._ Just thinking about it made him bow his head in shame. A slight breeze gently moved his hair. In the distance a bird whistled a cadence to spring. His thoughts centered in the past.

Of all the people to hallucinate in the throes of a gunshot--she was the one. How he had hated that fantasy would never be reality, until the day she broke down his walls and showed him that life was worth living. Then she slipped her hand in his and taught him what love was. Love without the apathy.

Vicodin could never compare to the high he felt when she let him touch her soul from the inside out. Or that powerful surge of life that coursed thru his soul when he woke up in her arms. He remembered how he overdosed on her kiss. Lips so full of life it made his knees go weak, yet he wanted to do cartwheels.

How could he close the door on someone who knew the real him? The someone who loved his music, moods, monster trucks, and his motorcycle. He closed his eyes and remembered how she came up behind him as he played piano. Silently, she would hold him until he finished. Then wordlessly they would walk hand in hand to the bedroom.

How can he say good-bye to someone who could stand toe to toe and call him what he really is? An idiot. Love did help him see the world from a different view. But love could never replace his knack for sarcasm. Some patients needed the cold hard truth: Life sucks!!! Oh what fun it had been to see what walked through the door and helped pay the bills. Maybe a monkey with a bottle of motrin could have done his job, but could that same creature have appreciated the joy of telling patients to grow up, get off their ass, and get a life? Nah. How he loved to see her roll her eyes when he came home complaining about the doctors on General Hospital and how at least they got appreciated. But then again they were scripted. Lucky devils.

Maybe their life together hadn't been perfect. He had had his immature, selfish, self-loathing moments, and she would try to make everything better. There were plenty of shouting matches, slammed doors, and many more nights of making up. He knew alot of the aggravation he had given her was just so he could find an excuse to wrap her in his arms and spend the night loving her. She knew that there were habits and idiosyncracies he would never give up, and she learned to embrace that part of him because deep down inside he could never fully surrender. That's what made him unique and driven.

Wilson was correct about being around that much niceness. Lord knew how many hours he had spent trying to wash away her niceness, her scent, her being. But he could never wash his soul. She had been more addictive than any painkiller on the market. He could have lived on that high forever.

Then it was over.

She had tried to explain it wasn't her choice, that she would be with him always. She would fiddle with his hair and tell him never to shave---the dangerous look emphasised his blue eyes. She had stroked his hand, told him that she would never stop loving him. Then with a sigh, and a small smile, she was gone. No warning. No good-bye.

And then pain had invaded his heart.

The irony was that his leg no longer hurt. What he would trade to have his leg hurt again, and let the tears come.

But he wouldn't cry in public.

He wouldn't give grief that satisfaction.

He felt a touch on his shoulder and looked up. Wilson. His only friend.

"House, it's time to go. They have to lower the casket."

House, shaking, got to his feet. He barely noticed the cane draped on his arm. Wilson held him steady, and a moment later both slowly moved to the waiting limo. Before he got in, House cast one last mournful look at the flower covered casket.

"I loved Allison." His chin quivered, and he ducked his head.

"She loved you, too, Gregory."

Wilson helped his friend inside. Settling in himself, Wilson closed the door and the limo started off.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he knew House was trying to be strong, but he knew the tears would come later.

He could handle later.


End file.
